Where, O where then at all dwelleth she? Alas since from Eden sin-driven, Man here all in vain would her see ; Her sole, chosen dwelling is Heaven. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM JUST PRESENTED TO A FAIR FRIEND. FRIENDSHIP'S gift so fair to see, What can I say worthy thee? For aught else than fancies rare Tablet where, in sequence bright, Rare gems of thought shall yet have place, As, one by one, the stars at night Come out, adorning heaven's face. Book of beauty, let me shew What should grace thy page of snow, What the themes on which may turn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn." Minstrel fancies "short and sweet" Here the artist's pencil may Doing homage like a true man ; Never pleases minstrel art More than when the theme is woman. Woman-pearl of priceless worth! Never in this book be penned Dullards, pray keep distance wide; Aught that ye might have to spare her Type of infancy ere yet Thought has its impression set Yet with the proud laurel crowned, Joyful as a mother may Watch the dawn of reason's ray LINES WRITTEN ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. WHAT though my muse be more at home I still would gladly do my best Where "orient pearls at random strung" Appear at no far future day. Fain would I write to please the Fair- The "glorious" wounds-the thousands slain? In "Glory's bed" they rest! then why To have me sing of scenes like these; Lady, small joy 'twould thee afford But by inflicting greater, sure Were mine the Harp of Ettrick old, more oft than tongue can tell? Fond strains that mourn the early lost, O come in all your sweetness here; Of tender memories wake a host, And let each memory claim a tear. Here also be the soul-born song That kindles at the Bondsman's wrong, And bids him, as our brother, be, O'er all the earth, a brother free. And here be, too, the strain that tells Of woodlands green and ferny dells— The mountain tow'ring in its pride, The torrent dashing down its side, The heather blooming on its breast, The red-deer in its corries chased, mist curling round its brow, The lake, reflecting all, below The gray Yes, ev'n in fancy but to see My Highland Home is bliss to me! But more than all, of themes most dear, Let woman's love find favour hereLove! richest boon to mortals given, Sun of my life's oft-clouded sky! I would not give its anguish even For any other earthly joy. Without its magic power, I ween, Earth's sweetest songs had never been, And even this poor lay I sing Were poorer still, but that it has The inspiration following, The wish to win Eliza's praise. |